The Quiet of Winter
by BeyondTheHorizonIsHope
Summary: Some lives come together through extraordinary circumstance, tales fit for song and legend, and some are born from the moments in between, softly spoken words against the backdrop of war. This was how Jon came to love her, and how she came to love him.
1. The Quiet of Winter

Hello everyone, and welcome to my Game of Thrones short story!

I guess you could say this is the culmination of several attempts at writing a Jon/OC fic. I've always wanted to, but they never worked. Now, given the status of my other story, I can't imagine going as in depth into _another_ Game of Thrones story, so this is a simple, small love story spanning over the course of a few chapters. As such, not much in terms of plot is changing. It's mostly a character piece. This also won't update as often given there aren't many chapters.

This first chapter is just a small meet-cute. There is actually **gasp **humor! We'll get into the real meat of it in the next chapter.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

"_The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved; loved for ourselves, or rather, in spite of ourselves."_

-Victor Hugo

* * *

**The Quiet of Winter**

**Chapter One  
**Serra Lanford

Jon Snow was fifteen years old when he first laid eyes on Serra Lanford.

And when he did, he nearly choked.

He probably would have had no issue at all had Theon not been passing by at that exact moment.

There he sat, eyes temporarily transfixed on the mess of blonde curls that had just entered the Great Hall, a half-consumed mug of mead in his possession. Jon figured there was no hesitation on the Greyjoy's part before he slapped him across the back, gaining half the table's attention. They turned in time to witness Jon inhale his drink and then proceed to sputter it out. Somehow, the event prompted cheers – albeit drunken ones – and several more slaps on the back.

By the time he'd cleared his lungs and his eyes had stopped watering, gazes from all over the room had been drawn to him, including those of his father and Lady Stark, who'd skewer him with her dinner knife had there been no witnesses. Even so, he'd like to say she was tempted to try anyway.

Serra was watching as well. She leaned over to speak with her father, Lord Martyn Lanford, a wisp of a man with a kind face. But even that disappeared when he whispered back to his daughter about the bastard watching them, shaking his head.

Others take him.

Preferably now.

"What's the matter, Snow? Can't hold your liquor?" Theon asked, his face twisting into his trademark punchable smirk.

Jon felt his hands curl into fists. He would have scraped his chair across the floor and stood to meet Theon's insults had a large hand not grasped his shoulder tightly.

"Lord Stark may have need of you, Theon," his father's man, Jory, said, no real threat in his words, though his tone was like ice. "I'd suggest you move along."

That wiped the grin off the Greyjoy's face fast enough, although Jon would have preferred giving the honor to his fist. It would have been awfully hard to look smug with missing front teeth.

When Theon departed, disappearing into the throng of drunken bannermen, Jory took a seat next to him. His hand never left Jon's shoulder, allowing him to lean close and speak plainly.

"If you never want to be part of a feast again, then by all means, give in to that anger."

His words only further incensed Jon. "So, he's to get away with whatever he does?"

"Theon Greyjoy is a petulant child, the whole room knows it, but if you strike him, it's no longer about that. Now it's about a bastard attacking the trueborn son of a lord. He'll win, and you'll never see the inside of this room again."

Trueborn. There was no word he hated more in this world. Bastard he could grow used to, he could ignore and pretend it was for someone else, but trueborn was an entirely different beast. It was a word not meant for him, wielded like a weapon by those who spoke it, because being alive was not enough to make him a true son. He was an afterthought, a castoff, forced to sit in dark corners with the lower ranking members of his household because his mother was not Catelyn Stark.

And his father, the man who insisted that he was blood despite his name, would have him remain there.

He loved his father, but there were some days where he hated no one more.

This was turning into one of those days.

Jon took a breath. "That isn't-"

"Fair?" Jory interrupted, eyebrows raised. His father's man expected him to know better. "No, it isn't fair, but it is the way of the world."

Soundly defeated, Jon fell silent, picking at the roast mutton passed down the table. Conversations droned around him, rising and falling at regular intervals, the heartbeat of the North. Drinks were offered, a man or two toasted with him, but otherwise Jon watched the events without participation. He didn't want to give Theon Greyjoy the power to ruin his evening, but he was finding it hard to regain any semblance of enjoyment.

In fact, Jon was about to call it a night when a chorus went up on the other side of the room.

He glanced up to find that the Greatjon had stumbled out of his chair and to the center of the room. There he stood arguing very loudly with the tiny form of Serra Lanford.

Hands on her hips and chin held high, she didn't seem intimidated by the large Umber, though she didn't stand much of a chance once the man had set his mind to something. The Greatjon displayed as much when he casually plucked the young woman off the ground and placed her on top of the long table.

"Now, give a song!"

Serra glanced at her father seated below her, who could only shrug as his shoulders began to shake with laughter.

Jon found himself leaning forward, watching as the Lady Serra gave an awkward curtsy to the Lord's Table, her green dress dragging through bits of meat and sauce and drink. Lady Stark looked on the verge of chasing the Greatjon out of her castle, but his father was strangely bemused by the whole affair, and lifted his drink in approval.

And so, she began to sing.

_On the hill there was a maid  
__Who no passing knight or lord she bade  
__A fond farewell to meet their fill  
__That heartless maiden on the hill_

Quiet at first, Serra's voice gained in volume as it became clear that she had the Great Hall's attention. And how could she not? Her voice was beautiful, deeper than he thought it would be, but engaging. He could hear the smile in her voice and realized that despite her protestations, she actually enjoyed the act, if not the attention.

_Now in the valley lived a boy  
__The butcher's son cared not for joy  
__Until his gaze chanced on the sky  
__And the cruel young maiden caught his eye_

_Alas! he cried I found the one  
__Though I'd left my heart open for none  
__The butcher saw his boy and sighed  
__For the maid would ne'er be anyone's bride_

In drunken revelry, others began to sing along with her, and the mood quickly caught on. Lords and ladies were on their feet, laughing and spinning to the quick beat. It was a funny sort of song to find merriment in. Jon knew the lyrics well, given Sansa hummed it often enough. The boy climbed to the maid, who rejected his advances and sent him falling from the hill. It killed the boy, and in her sadness, the maiden jumped as well.

He supposed it was a romantic ballad, in a twisted sort of way.

Beside him, Jory chuckled.

"I think the young lord's smitten."

Jon looked over to where his half-brother sat, in full view of Serra's performance. Eyes wide and mouth set in a silly grin, Robb looked utterly ridiculous. He clearly didn't notice, his eyes never leaving the girl as she continued to dance about the top of the table.

It'd be a good match, he thought. The Lanfords were not an old house, but they'd been loyal bannermen over the years. Their keep was in the mountains north of Winterfell, carved into the rock face, or so Maester Luwin told them. They provided building materials to the other houses, and most famously carved the statues in Winterfell's crypts. Despite that, a Lanford had never married into the line.

Robb stood as the song turned into a loud rendition of The Bear and the Maiden Fair, with the Greatjon leading the vocals. He walked over to Serra's table and offered his hand. Jon imagined he was providing both a means down from the table as well as a dancing companion, even though his brother was a dreadful dancer. He tripped over his own feet just walking, don't ask him to do the same to a melody.

But Robb was clearly willing to embarrass himself for a pretty face.

Serra made a move to take his hand, but snatched it back just as quickly. Hiking up her skirts, she leapt from the table and landed gracefully on the stone floor, to the cheers of everyone around.

Despite the initial rejection, Serra took Robb's hand and allowed him to lead her through the crowd.

"Aye, so he is," Jon mumbled, taking another drink. His eyes glanced toward his father, who was watching the two with an unreadable gaze. Lady Stark, however, looked almost overjoyed. At least she could be happy for something.

Jory was looking at him, but Jon didn't bother acknowledging it.

Time passed, and the hall grew a little louder, and a little more chaotic. Everyone was deep in their drinks now. His younger siblings had been sent to bed, and all the sober attendees had left on other business, their livelier counterparts becoming far too much for them.

A few souls were passed out on the tables, snoring into their plates, but most of the remaining people had gathered in the center, singing and dancing still. Serra was being spun about by nearly everyone, passed from one man to another until she lost control of herself, crashing into the table before him with a whooping laugh.

She held onto the table to steady herself, brushing the curls out of her face as she continued to giggle. No one ran to her immediate aid, either because they were still laughing or were too drunk to notice.

Light blue eyes met his, crinkling at the edges as she smiled at him.

"Ah, the somber one," she said, offering her hand across the table. "C'mon, join us!"

Jon blinked, staring at her hand as if it meant to bite him. None of the other highborn ladies had ever spoken to him like that, or offered to even touch him, as if the bastard might rub off on them, not that he was supposed to associate with them in the first place. He blamed it on the drink; he also blamed the drink for his hand reaching out to take hers.

Robb suddenly swayed into the picture, sitting in a chair to keep himself from falling onto the floor. "I didn't think you'd still be here, Jon! Don't you usually run away from these sort of things?"

His brother might have been kinder if he'd been sober, but it stung nonetheless.

Jon tried to smile. "Was just about to leave. You highborns are hard enough to deal with when you haven't been drinking."

"No, stay!" Robb shouted, slamming his hand on the table. "Don't let me ruin everything!"

It was a bit late for that. Whatever small amount of courage he'd had a moment before had vanished, acutely reminding him of his place in the world.

"No, that's alright," Jon replied, standing. He nodded to Serra. "My lady."

Her round eyes blinked, confused, but otherwise she did not react as he walked away, disappearing out the doors and into the darkened halls of Winterfell.

* * *

Sword training had always been a good way to relieve stress. When the day had been too much for him or the words of others too harsh, Jon would find himself on the training grounds, breaking wooden dummies with blunted steel until his anger – or his arm – gave way. He visited often as of late, and found that his body was becoming more likely to give in than his emotions, leaving him tired, sore, and no better off than when he'd started.

But tonight had not been the case, at least.

Jon had not been particularly frustrated, his anger at Theon having dulled over the course of the meal, but he'd taken up the practice sword out of habit. It was far too early to sleep anyway, and most people had taken to avoiding the cold that had fallen over Winterfell, preferring hearthside seats to the wintry blasts from the Wall.

He'd been cold at first, hands nearly numb as he began the motions with his sword, but by the end, even the winds were not enough to keep him cool. In the pale moonlight, Jon could make out the steam rapidly escaping his leathers, drifting into the night sky until it was no more. Breathing heavily, sword discarded at his feet, he watched the distant moon and wondered if they were not due for snow soon.

Satisfied, Jon began the slow trek back to the castle, listening as the buzz from the ongoing feast inside began to grow. His path took him past the stables, where the soft whinnies and hoof beats of horses greeted his ears.

As well as one distinctly feminine giggle.

Jon paused in his journey, staring at the half open gate. There was a – not so small – part of him that thought to just leave well enough alone. He could think of a dozen ways that the situation on the other side of that doorway would lead to nothing but trouble for him, regardless of his innocent intentions. However, his curiosity, and boyish overconfidence, were quickly winning the battle, and cheered in triumph when he pushed through the gate.

Several creatures moved in their stalls, sniffing in his direction before returning to whatever claimed their attention previously.

Jon ignored them, staring into the darkness, hoping it would remain silent until his curiosity was sated.

A small hiccup to his left killed any hope of a quiet evening.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Jon began to make out a small silhouette lying against the hay. With a dark dress and wild curls, it could have been none other than Serra Lanford. She'd clearly been drinking, and clutched a bottle in her hand still.

To be honest, Jon considered still walking away. A bastard alone with a drunken highborn lady in the dark? Men had been sent to the Wall on less. But exposure was a real threat in the North, and while Serra was warm in the stables for now, chances were she would not remain. The drunk liked to wander – as she had clearly proven already – and he would not have her injury or death on his conscience.

"My lady?" he asked, taking a tentative step forward.

Even in the darkness, he could see her eyes light up.

"Bastard!"

Right, she could freeze to death then.

"No, no, no, no, don't…go." She tried to sit up, but the drink hit her, and Jon could practically hear her vision swimming. Serra fell back into the hay with a sigh. "It's so lonely in here."

He leaned against the frame of the stall, watching her as one would a wounded animal, dangerous and unpredictable. Serra immediately took to ignoring him, humming the song from earlier in the evening. She casually played with the bottle, letting it roll from one hand to the other, back and forth until her lack of focus dropped it into the hay beside her. Staring at the spot it fell to, it took the young woman nearly a minute to find the thing again before she began attempting to pull the cork out.

"You shouldn't drink any more, my lady," Jon offered, not that it was needed. Serra couldn't get the bottle open.

"_You shouldn't drink any more, my lady._"

Others take his curiosity.

Serra gave up on her quarry, and looked back up at him. Moonlight drifted through the cracks in the wood and lit the golden strands of her hair. There was hay stuck in her curls.

She gestured to the overturned stool beside the pile of hay. Something told Jon that had been her first target, and that she had grossly miscalculated the landing.

"Sit."

"No, thank you, my lady."

Her eyes narrowed. "What if I ordered you to?"

Jon inhaled, his body going stiff immediately. The young woman he'd met in the Great Hall hadn't given him the impression of like the other highborn women he had known, putting on airs and believing themselves better than those below their station. But perhaps that had been his drink talking. He was a bastard, after all. Everyone was better than him, and they knew it, and they had no problems showing it. What could he do but take the hits and move along?

He was in too deep now, however. Suppose he said no, or just left, and she remembered. There were too many things she could say to her lord father, and no one would ever question a word she said.

So, Jon picked up the stool and took a seat.

Serra offered him the bottle.

"Open."

The cork came out with a 'pop,' and Jon handed it back to her.

She shook her head. "Drink."

Jon took a breath, looking at the girl across from him. She didn't even blink, blue eyes watching expectantly.

He lifted the bottle to his lips, tilting it just enough so that the liquid inside touched them, before handing it back to Serra. He needed his head clear if he was going to make it out of this mess, and she'd never notice the difference.

Serra looked at the bottle triumphantly, taking a long swig from it before falling deeper into the hay. She snuggled into the stuff, making sounds of contentment. It couldn't have actually been comfortable, but she was too far-gone to notice.

"Are you going to give me orders all night?" he asked.

"Possibly."

"Why?"

"It's nice to have someone listen to me for once."

Had Jon not been so furious at the whole situation, he might have noticed the sadness in her voice. Then again, he may not have cared. A lady's concerns were not his own, and yet he was paying for them nonetheless.

It fell silent again soon after, save for her breathing. Thinking she might have fallen asleep, Jon stood up, having half a mind to grab the nearest guard and have him take care of her. He wanted to go back to the training grounds, knowing full well he'd beat everything into the dirt and still feel that anger, but it would be better than going back inside in this state. Gods knew snapping at the wrong person was the last thing he needed.

"Bastard…" her voice faintly called to him as he left the stall.

"My name is Jon," he replied firmly, not turning back.

"Jon Snow," she echoed, tongue rolling curiously off his last name. "Snooooow. It must be nice."

Nice. That was not a word he'd use to describe it. That was not a word anyone would use.

He sighed, caving. "And what could possibly be nice about having a bastard's name?"

Serra smiled, looking at him like he was simple and didn't know any better. "You're free."

Faintly, a voice in the back of his mind told him not to, and was quickly lost to the sudden roar of his anger.

"Free? _I'm_ free?" he asked, chuckling mirthlessly, watching Serra slowly sit up and nod at him. "Free to do what? To sit at the back of the hall while my brothers and sisters are in the place of honor? To follow your orders?"

"You're free to do whatever you please," Serra replied, her voice clipped. "You can ride south and become a knight, you can be a maester or a septon or travel across the sea and be a bloody mercenary for all you care. Or you can even stay here and mope about being a poor bastard boy with a roof over your head and a full belly every night."

Jon took a step into the stall, shaking his head. "You say these things like you know, but you couldn't possibly understand what it's like."

"Maybe I don't," she shrugged. "But what I do understand is that my father spoke to your father. I understand that my father told me that Robb Stark is a match our family could only dream of, and what an _honor_ it would be to marry into such a noble house. I _understand_ that because I'm a woman with a name, my life isn't for me to decide."

Serra gripped the sides of the stall and slowly pulled herself to her feet, gripping the wood with white knuckles. She took a step forward, letting go of her anchor and standing before Jon. She swayed heavily, looking ready to fall at any moment, but her eyes were steady, and fixed on him.

"Do you know what I'm free to be, Jon Snow? Your brother's fucking broodmare."

Jon didn't know what to say, truly. His anger, and whatever he'd been prepared to shout at her, had disappeared entirely, disbelief rendering his voice useless. All he could do was stare into those blue eyes and, for once, question whether he had been wrong over a good deal of things in his life.

Then the eyes were gone.

Serra had fallen, dropped right where she stood, and Jon was just barely able to catch her under the arms. She'd spent the last of her energy arguing with him, and felt like dead weight in his arms. Again, Jon found himself looking around the area, only finding horses staring at him, before he attempted to stand her back up.

The girl flopped against him, her head resting on his chest, arms wrapping around his person tightly.

Gods, this night could not have been any-

No, don't say it.

"I don't want to marry Robb Stark," she murmured, voice muffled by his tunic.

"My brother's…a good man," Jon replied, attempting – and failing – to peel her arms from his body. Serra Lanford may have been a small woman, but her grip was like death.

"Good for him," she said, attempting to bury her head in his chest like he was a pillow. "Still don't want to."

"Why not?"

Jon wasn't quite sure why he asked. If he kept her talking, at least it meant she was still conscious, but there was a part of him that truly wanted to know. Girls from all over Winterfell swooned over his half-brother. Robb was tall, good-looking, strong, and the future lord. Lords from across the North were practically shoving their daughters in his direction, and somehow he'd stumbled across the one who wanted nothing to do with him.

Serra leaned back, and Jon was struck by just how sad her eyes had become.

"I don't want to be my mother."

Her grip on him relaxed, and she fell backwards.

"No, no, no, no, no!" Jon quickly grabbed her arms again, pulling her forward. In one, fluid movement, he ducked down, grabbed her legs, and picked her right up, tossing her body over his shoulder.

He paused.

And thought.

And realized.

_Seven bloody hells._

Here he was, Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, carrying Lady Serra Lanford on his shoulder like she was meat ready for the butcher's block.

Jon closed his eyes and sighed.

_Gods, just don't let Lady Stark see me._

Clearly committed – and admittedly not willing to see what sort of mess he'd wind up in if he tried to put her back down – Jon slowly made his way out of the stable, turning this way and that, looking for any guards that may have been patrolling.

He nearly hit her head once.

Only nearly.

The moon was still bright and full as he crossed the courtyard, lighting the path clearly before him. He kept slowing his pace, both because the girl in his arms was heavier than she seemed, and he wasn't quite certain where he was going to deposit her once he entered the castle.

He hadn't thought that far.

He never did.

Arya said it was his defining trait.

Minus the brooding that was.

"Jon?"

"Yes, my lady?" he asked, admittedly relieved that she was still conscious.

"I'm sorry I called you a bastard," she mumbled. "I forgot your name."

"I'm sure you won't forget it now, my lady."

"And I'm sorry I ordered you around."

"That's alright."

"I'm usually nice."

"If you say so, my lady."

"You don't believe me?"

"Not entirely."

Jon felt her hand swat at his leg and couldn't help himself. He laughed.

Gods, what a confusing night this was.

After some precise maneuvering, and nearly dropping Serra on her head, Jon managed to pry open the door to the kitchens.

The fires were already out, the servants and cooks done for the evening. He stumbled through the space, guided by the moonlight pouring through the windows alone, listening as Serra began to hum again.

In the adjacent corridor, he attempted to put Serra down, mostly by sliding her against the wall. He wasn't certain she could stand on her own anymore. She answered that quickly by nearly falling down as soon as he let her go, so he kept his arms under hers.

He could just leave her here, he thought. It was warm, and someone would find her come morning.

"Serra," he started, gaining her attention. Her head rolled up, and bleary, blue eyes blinked at him. "Do you know where your quarters are?"

She bit her lip, and appeared to struggle. "There were…stairs?"

Jon sighed. "Well, I suppose that's a start."

He tried to lift her, and swing her arm around his shoulder, but Serra appeared set on staying put, refusing to help in the slightest. Oddly, Jon found himself unable to move her.

"Why didn't you dance with me?" she asked. "I wanted to dance with you."

Jon didn't know how to answer that.

Footsteps down the hallway spared him from it. A large, bearded man walked toward them. One of his eyes had a large scar running through it, and though his hair was as white as the snow, his beard was blonde still. His armor was dark, steel bound to leather, and chiseled into the gorget was the image of the sun rising over the mountains, the sigil of House Lanford.

"Ser Nestor!" Serra exclaimed, smiling widely. "Come to take me home?"

"Something like that, my lady," he replied, voice gravel. He eyed Jon. "Or at least to better company."

Jon couldn't help but glance at his sword.

Serra bounced off the wall at that, hands on her hips. "Jon Snow is marvelous company! His intentions are completely honorable!"

Then she fell backwards.

Catching Serra Lanford for the third time that night, Jon grunted against the impact, attempting not to touch anything he shouldn't as he struggled with her body in front of one of her father's men.

Ser Nestor sighed, grabbing her arms and pulling her up. He then picked her up off the floor as if she weighed nothing, and walked away without another word.

* * *

Jon didn't sleep that night. He kept waiting for his father to come into the room and ask him to explain himself, or Ser Nestor, or Lord Martyn, or worst of all, Lady Catelyn. But no one disturbed him, and all was quiet until the sun slowly rose that morning.

He stumbled through the Great Hall, finding it remarkably clean and free of the men who had passed out in it the night before.

Seated where she was at the feast, head flat against the table, leaving her curls to roam wildly across the surface, was Serra.

A boy with equally blonde curls, her brother, Rickard, kept yelling into her ear, knowing full well what his sister was suffering from. Her hand appeared from beneath the table and planted itself on his face, shoving him away.

"You look like shit, Snow," Theon said, bumping past him.

"He still looks better than you."

Jon blinked, looking back to Serra. She'd lifted her head, resting it on her hand, while the other one still occupied itself with her brother. Her eyes were red, skin pale, and she looked utterly miserable, but the grin on her face dripped with a smugness that rivaled Theon's.

He'd never forget the look on Theon's face for the rest of his life.

* * *

.

.

Serra Lanford is no Myra Stark, that's for sure, and I certainly hope I've made her likable enough. We'll get more into her and why she acts the way she does next chapter, you know, when she's sober the whole time.

Thanks for reading!


	2. Stonefall

Well, that took a long time.

Sorry.

* * *

**Chapter Two  
**Stonefall

Jon did not see Serra Lanford for another two years. During that time, he forgot much of what they discussed, though he still listened for phantom giggles in the stables, and found himself attracted to a life in service of the Night's Watch more and more. He'd all but settled on the idea when his uncle, Benjen, journeyed south to see them, and somehow, he managed to convince the man to take him. He almost stayed for the sake of Bran, or maybe for himself he guessed. Leaving while his brother clung to life felt like a bad omen, but the thought of remaining in Winterfell with Lady Catelyn did not sit well with him.

And so, he left, with worries about his brother and questions about his mother – that his father still refused to answer – on his mind.

In the end, he supposed it wasn't much different from home.

They traveled north for three days, he, his uncle, and Tyrion Lannister with his guards. As much as he wanted to hate the man, Jon began to grow grateful for his talkative nature. It might have been quite the silent journey otherwise, and Jon feared the sort of doubts that might crawl into his mind during those moments. His uncle may not have minded that – he only asked him every morning if he was still certain – but Jon knew he could not go back now. He would feel ashamed, and could never properly face anyone again.

The hills that were to the west had turned into sharp, jagged mountains looming in the distance. Even when blocked by the pines and spruces of the Wolfswood, he could still feel their presence.

When their party came to the end of Long Lake, a large mass of water that had been on their eastern flank for the better part of a day, they were met with a crossroads, and a tall, stony watchtower. Benjen exchanged a few familiar words with the guard and turned their company west.

"This is the Stone Road," Tyrion commented, taking in his surroundings with newfound interest. It wasn't much of a road to speak of. Dirt and pine needles just cleared of trees, although occasionally Jon could make out an ancient path beneath. "You're taking us to Stonefall Keep."

"I am," was his uncle's curt reply. Despite his best efforts, Tyrion had not managed to get the man to warm to his presence.

"Excellent! Always a pleasure to see another house as ingenious as mine. Why build a keep when you can take what nature gave you?"

Jon felt that there was more to Casterly Rock than that, but decided it was better not to comment on the matter.

He rode up to his uncle, frowning. "We're not heading for the Wall?"

Benjen chuckled, sounding like his father. "Don't worry, Jon. The Wall will still be there when we've finished, but while I'm here, I've other business to attend to. House Lanford always has new recruits, and the mountain clans give us good information about wildling activity. The northernmost tribes encounter them often."

House Lanford.

Of course, this was Serra's home.

_Lady_ Serra.

The party continued down the path. It took them an hour to reach the base of the mountains, where the trees began to thin and logging mills could be seen dotting the horizon.

When they emerged at the end, Jon did not know what to think.

Large, stone walls formed a crescent shape before the keep, thirty feet high at least, only ending when they intersected with the mountains. Four watchtowers of wood were built across them, where archers watched them curiously, but at ease. The large, iron portcullis was drawn up, revealing a clear image of what lay beyond.

Within the confines of the walls were several wooden structures: a smithy, stables, a large meeting house with wolves carved into the great columns at the entrance. Along the perimeter, merchants set their lean-tos against the walls, haggling with roughly clad mountain men over swords, armor, and foodstuffs. Competition set up across from them, creating a narrow, winding pathway of stalls, which was only interrupted by the front gate, and the stairways to the top of the walls. People bustled to and fro, not all of them speaking the common tongue.

And before it all sat the keep, which was the mountain itself, stretching upward for an age, far larger than any tower in Winterfell. The large, gaping entryway, more a cave than a hold's main doorway, marked the center of it. Along the edges of the opening were carvings of wolves and men, stags and aurochs, great battles and beasts, stories of the past. Aside from the gateway and a few windows carved deep into the rock, there was nothing else to distinguish it as a building. The men who carved out Stonefall Keep had not shaped great pillars or walkways, and no statues lined the surface. They had left much of the exterior intact, yet Jon had the feeling that the interior would prove far different.

"Well, it's certainly not Casterly Rock," Tyrion spoke, looking a little awed as he did so. "But I would be lying if I said it wasn't impressive."

Jon didn't say anything at all, but he was aware that his jaw had gone slack.

Beside him, Benjen chuckled. "If you think that's impressive, you should have seen Harrenhal."

The party dismounted, holding the reins to their horses as they stood just inside the gate. Except for Tyrion, that was. He had his guards for that kind of work.

Ghost, still small for his age, curled up by his boots beneath his cloak.

And there they waited.

"Are we supposed to be doing something?" the Lannister asked eventually.

"Be patient, Lord Tyrion. They know we're here," Benjen replied, a knowing smirk on his face. "They're just late is all."

Jon was going to ask, until a slender form darted in front of them.

Serra Lanford was older and taller – though not by much – and she'd developed more…that was…

She grew.

Standing before them uncloaked, but in a heavy, gray dress, Serra fidgeted. She glanced between them and some place in the market. Occasionally, she'd smile awkwardly at Benjen – who'd smile back encouragingly – before looking back to the same spot.

"Rickard!" she hissed.

Stumbling out of the crowd, still as blonde as his sister, but far taller than he was when Jon last saw him in Winterfell – clearly taller than him, though he'd never acknowledge it – Rickard Lanford smiled sheepishly at their party. Tall he may have been, but there wasn't an ounce of muscle on the boy. He looked half-starved, somehow both too big and too small for his clothes, and utterly ridiculous with the barest hint of stubble on his chin.

His sister yanked the longbow out of his hand, giving him a pointed look.

Rickard gave a respectful bow of his head. "Welcome to Stonefall Keep, Lord Tyrion. I am Rickard Lanford, son of Lord Martyn. My father is currently meeting with some of the mountain clan chieftains, but I am at your service to provide anything you need."

There was a sort of cadence to the way the boy spoke that suggested he'd been working on memorizing the lines. Even so, he stumbled a little and his voice was meek, quite the opposite from his sister. Still, Serra nodded in approval. Jon wondered if the words were hers.

"That is quite alright," Tyrion replied. "No offense, but I prefer to wander on my own."

"Oh, good."

Without hesitation, Serra smacked her brother on the back with his bow.

Rickard cleared his throat, though not before shooting a glare at his sister. "Whatever suits you, my lord. Stonefall Keep is open to you."

"Such a warm welcome so far north. I'm unfamiliar with the feeling," Tyrion mused. Jon could feel his gaze fall on him and chose to ignore it.

"Try not to get used to it, Lord Tyrion," Serra said. From any other, it would have sounded like a threat, but her voice had a pleasant disposition. "Clansmen aren't fond of outsiders. They come here to trade, to smith armor-"

Two men stumbled into the mud beside them, all fists and shouts, but no drawn steel.

"And to fight," she finished, neither disturbed in the slightest nor willing to do anything to remedy the situation. A few men in leather armor gathered around the two, cheering and chanting until one was victorious.

The unconscious man was left in the mud.

Tyrion watched it all unfold with the most curious look on his face. "The longer I am here, the more fascinating the North becomes. At this rate, I may never leave."

Jon did not miss the brief, disturbed look that crossed the face of one of the Lannister guards.

"You'll be bored soon enough, my lord," Serra replied, watching the man in the mud. She motioned to a couple guards on patrol, who proceeded to hoist the man up and drag him…somewhere. "When winter comes, you'll wonder if anyone actually lives here."

"Trust me, I plan to be comfortably far south when that happens."

With that, Tyrion departed with his guards, leaving their horses to servants who had run up while they spoke.

Benjen clasped his shoulder. "Rickard, Serra, allow me to introduce you to my nephew, Jon. He's come with me to take the black."

The small smile that had formed on Serra's face disappeared. Why did it make him feel so guilty?

His uncle did not miss the look, nor the way the air changed around them.

He felt the grip tighten. "You two have met?"

Serra's lips quirked at that. "A while ago, aye. It was an…uplifting experience."

It was one of those lines that demanded an immediate reaction, no matter the present company. Jon snorted in laughter before he was actually aware that he found the response funny, and was confronted by Benjen's utterly confused gaze.

It wasn't like he hadn't seen him laugh before, just not with anyone who wasn't family.

Definitely not in front of a woman.

A highborn woman.

Could he please look somewhere else?

"Sounds like quite the tale," Benjen noted. "You'll have to tell me some time, Jon."

He was teasing him. Jon knew it, and yet he couldn't help but walk straight into the trap.

"It's not that interesting, Uncle," he admitted, only realizing his mistake when he saw Serra's eyebrow lift. Of course, she had been teasing him too, but he was completely oblivious to that fact. "That is…I mean…it was…it happened."

Serra began to laugh, which only provoked a more curious look from Benjen. Jon could feel his cheeks catching fire, and tried desperately to shrink into the furs of his cloak.

Eventually, Benjen laughed, slapping Jon on the back. "Come now, Rickard, take me to your father, and you can tell me all about that bow of yours."

Rickard's face lit up as he all but yanked the bow out of Serra's grasp. Immediately, he began chatting away about the details in the wood and selecting the proper tree.

Jon hadn't expected being left alone with Serra to be so awkward. Well, on his part, yes, but he believed Serra would have brushed that all off, regaling him with that controversial mind of hers. Instead, she was quiet, eying him curiously with those blue eyes, but was otherwise not inclined to speak.

He kept waiting for another fight to break out as a distraction, but he'd never been that lucky.

"So, uh…" he started, oozing confidence, obviously. "Where did they take…"

When he pointed at the body-like imprint in the mud, Serra nodded in understanding. Perhaps he was seeing things, but her shoulders seemed to slump in relief, grateful for the momentary distraction.

"Oh, there's a place near the barracks. Maester Harren makes his rounds every now and again."

Jon blinked. "You have a building dedicated to unconscious men?"

Serra shrugged like it was nothing. "I mean, it's not _just_ for them, but most of the occupants tend to be. The mountain clans handle things differently. Knocking their lights out is the only way most of them will ever get treated. You see a lot of men around here dying from cuts they didn't think needed to be tended to."

He nodded, understanding. The wolf's blood ran strong in more than just the Starks.

As if on cue, Ghost emerged from the folds of Jon's cloak, gazing up at Serra with his piercing red eyes.

The woman melted on the spot.

"Aren't you a handsome one!" she practically squeaked, crouching to get a better look at the direwolf.

Ghost, clearly the far braver of the two, immediately ran up to her, accepting her pets eagerly, his little tail whipping back and forth in joy. Had he the ability to make any sound, Jon was certain the creature would be yipping.

"The Norrey mentioned something about seeing direwolves south of the Wall. I hadn't thought they'd make it as far as Winterfell."

Jon nodded, removing his glove and taking his turn to scratch Ghost behind the ear. "They shouldn't have survived. Their mother didn't, but we found them south of the river. One for each of Ned Stark's children."

"And of course, Jon Snow would receive the white pup."

He smiled. "Aye, I would."

The moment fell silent, but was considerably less awkward as they both showered his direwolf with affection. She smiled at him, and he smiled at her, and somehow they comfortably interacted with one another as if their only time together hadn't been spent with one of them too drunk to stand. He found himself strangely fond of the memory, but then again, he hadn't many to choose from. Most involved Arya, but she was far away now, for good perhaps.

Serra stood then, brushing off her skirts before offering Jon her hand.

"Come along, then," she said, eyes lit with excitement. "There's plenty to see before evening falls."

He remembered the feast, and how she'd reached out the same way. It was the drink, he had told himself, but she was sober now and looked no less eager.

"We're all Northmen here, Jon," she urged, noting his hesitance. "The clansmen don't care who your mother was."

When he took her hand, Serra yanked him up with a force he didn't think she would possess, and triumphantly grinned at him before pulling him in the direction of the entry to the mountain. She didn't let go as they passed the guards, and whenever he tried to pull his hand back, her grip would only tighten, until he eventually gave in and held her hand properly in return. Her hand was small and warm, yet not as soft as he had imagined. She used her hands, though for what, he could not guess.

"Tell me, my lady, do you insist on holding my hand because it makes me uncomfortable?"

He heard her giggle. "You're far more intuitive than I thought, Jon Snow. Perhaps I should give you more credit."

"Perhaps you ought to find better entertainment."

Serra turned to him, releasing his hand. They stood just before the entrance to the mountain, but the interior contrasted heavily with the outside light, and he could barely make out what was inside. But there was a great echoing sound, thousands of footsteps perhaps belonging to only a dozen people. A horse-drawn sledge exited to Serra's right as she looked at him, carrying a heap of furs that jostled at every bump, and to her left, a group of five mountain men entered, carrying spears and dressed for weather far harsher than what they were experiencing.

It was a different sort of world, but it fit her, he realized.

"Have you seen this place? We don't have much going for us," Serra said, though he could see the mischievous glint in her eye. She was teasing. "If something bothers others, it tends to attract me at least."

"Aye, it would."

She smirked. "Don't act as if you know me so well already."

"I wouldn't dream of it, my lady."

He followed her into the dark tunnel, blinking to adjust to the changing light. Serra slowed to a stop a few paces in and had turned to face him. It was clear she wanted to see his reaction, and Jon was admittedly intimidated by that. What was a bad reaction? A good one? What if he didn't-

_Oh._

All his senses seemed to adjust simultaneously, snapping him into a world wholly unfamiliar. He recalled Maester Luwin's words on Stonefall from a long time ago, and his brief mention of a tunnel carved into the mountains. How small and unfitting those words were.

The tunnel widened once they crossed the threshold, extending so far on either side that the wall torches could barely light the middle. It wasn't just a roadway, he realized, as his eyes adjusted further. Along the tunnel walls were various carved doorways leading to finely polished stone halls of a proper lord's keep. In between the entrances, household guards marched up and down the line while travelers rested on benches and horses ate from troughs, all carved from the stone of the mountain.

Not one part of the stone was left untouched. The walls carried further intricate carvings like those on the entrance, but larger and more detailed. The direwolf carving to his right was larger than a horse, the tip of its tail extending so far up that he lost track of where it ended in the darkness.

In the distance, he spied the smallest dot of light, the exit into the mountains. It shifted constantly, movement from those entering on the other side. A great many people passed through the slowly rising tunnel and he could see their motions shifting through the darkness, a small hum of commotion lit from above by large iron lanterns that hung from chains. Even those did not lack in detail, with fiery stags running across the metalwork.

"And there it is," Serra said suddenly. Jon ripped his gaze from the tunnel and found her gently smiling. "Not a man alive can stop themselves from staring in awe."

"It's just…it's so…"

"I know," she replied, returning to his side. "Legend says it was built from magic. The Children of the Forest helped our ancestors create this keep as a means of quick escape from the Others. I've heard the guards swear up and down that you can hear this place humming at night."

"And what do you think?"

Serra shrugged. "I think it's home."

He watched her a moment, taking in the magnificent place that surrounded them as if it was nothing. Men and women of different clans passed to their left and right, some covered in strange markings, others wearing the furs of creatures he'd never seen before. Some gave her a quick nod, others murmured greetings that she warmly replied to.

It would be a shame, he thought, to make her live anywhere else.

The sound of laughter from up above pulled Jon from his thoughts.

There were faces staring down at them, children, giggling and smiling from a little stone bridge that crossed the tunnel. There were multiple that he had spied spanning the distance.

"And what are you lot up to?" Serra called, looking up at their audience. He could hear her voice echo. "Not planning on dropping any flour on my friend here, are you?"

"No, Lady Serra!" the children shouted back at various levels.

"Because you know I'd be very cross if you did, yeah?"

They only giggled in response before fleeing the scene.

Serra sighed. "They used to pour candlewax."

Jon blinked, stepping back and looking up at the bridge above them again. He thought he could see old trails against the stone, and suddenly Arya's face was peering down at him. She'd have enjoyed this place.

When he brought his gaze back down, Serra had wandered to a door on the left – along with Ghost, the little traitor – and he rushed to catch up with her, nearly hitting a cart in the process.

"I'll show you to your room now," she said, stepping through the doorway into the castle proper. The keep was oddly well lit despite the lack of large windows on the exterior of the mountains, but as they passed hall after hall, he began to notice fine slits carved into the stone, illuminating every step they took. A man could still fire arrows from them if they chose to, but hardly any from the outside would be able to see them.

Perhaps the legends were right. It seemed a place built for defense.

"Tell me, my lady, does it involve stairs?"

"Candlewax is still an option, Snow," Serra replied without missing a beat. Jon smiled.

They wound through endless tunnels, none particularly straight, but seemingly shaped by the mountain's will. Each hall seemed to have its own personality with carvings, etchings, and stone decorations that matched nothing in particular. Some even ended with random statues.

Eventually, they stopped at a door that was no different from any of the others, but Serra seemed to think otherwise. She pushed it open lightly with her foot, gesturing inside with a small curtsy. Jon shook his head at her antics and stepped inside, finding himself once again in awe.

It was home to one of the few actual windows in the keep, the light of the day bathing the room in a cold, white glow. A large canopy bed sat on one side while a fireplace that was nearly half the length of the room roared on the other. Furs lined the floor while tapestries covered the walls. It was warm and welcoming, and felt far better than anything he deserved.

"You needn't worry about your name here, Jon," Serra said softly behind him. "You're a guest of my house now, and all guests deserve a handsome welcome."

He shook his head, turning. "My lady, I-"

"It's Serra, Jon," she said, the intensity of her gaze bringing him to a halt. "Just call me Serra."

"Alright," he said, fumbling with the courtesies in his mind. "Serra."

* * *

Night had fallen hours ago, but Jon found himself unable to sleep. Between his impending journey to the Wall and the events of the day, he found his mind spinning with too many thoughts to keep track of.

Serra had left him be, oddly quiet after everything. She had told him dinner would be brought to his quarters as the keep was too busy preparing for a hunt to hold a proper feast. He'd thought to ask more but she had disappeared down the hallway after that.

Now he watched the fire, where Ghost lay fast asleep, listening to it crackle and creak while sounds from the distant town below drifted through his window. Even in the dead of night, the place bustled as travelers consistently filtered through.

Slowly, Jon dressed, deciding to explore the keep further. It was his first and only chance to see it, so he might as well sate his curiosity.

He ignored the small voice that insisted he was hoping to wander into a certain blonde.

Unlike outside, the keep was quiet. A few guards dotted the hallways, their shields sporting the mountain sunset of House Lanford, but they paid him no mind as he walked about.

Turn after turn, Jon wandered, distantly wondering if he'd get himself lost and never be seen again. Part of him thought that might not have been so bad a thing.

On his final turn, Jon came face to face with what he assumed was Stonefall Keep's version of a godswood.

A small plot of dirt rested in the middle of the stone floor, where the roots and trunk of a great weirwood sprang out. The tree climbed up for an age, its branches spreading red leaves across the room and out into the open night air where the roof had been left open to allow it to grow. The walls surrounding the great tree were lined with weapons of every kind, swords, axes, spears, some clean, others rusted. Reminders of the fallen.

Moonlight drifted through the branches, making the room glow. The familiar face of the tree watched him, crying its red tears as it always did. Somewhere below, he heard the rush of water.

Feeling calm for the first time in hours, Jon took a breath and knelt before the tree.

"Leave it to a Stark to find a weirwood in a labyrinth."

Jon nearly jumped out of his skin, making a high-pitched sound that he was rather embarrassed by. He fell to the side, landing on the mossy ground as he looked up at the source of the voice.

Serra was looking down at him from the roof, silhouetted by moonlight and red leaves, an impish grin on her face. Her arms were crossed over where the ceiling tiles ended, her blonde curls spilling into the open air.

"My l – Serra," he gasped, fumbling to stand.

"My Serra?" she teased, grin growing. "My, my, how our relationship has grown, Jon Snow."

He ignored that.

"How did you get up there?" he asked, eyes looking to the branches that crossed over the threshold. "You didn't…"

"Climb?" Serra shrugged. "The old gods don't seem to mind. You can join me, if you like."

Jon sighed, looking between her and the tree. He could picture his father frowning at the action, for above all things, the old gods deserved their respect. But what was blasphemy to a bastard? Everything else he did was wrong anyway.

His hand reached for a low-lying branch.

"Wait, don't!" Serra called, gaining his attention. "There's stairs just behind the tree."

Jon ripped his hand away. "There's…what?"

"Gods, I didn't think you'd actually do it."

"Did you-"

"I just assumed you'd walk away."

"And I-"

"Or at the very least tell me where to shove it."

"And this-"

"Jon Snow, you are the singular most fascinating person I have ever met."

"I…what?"

Serra blinked, as if surprised she had said as much herself, before shrugging. "Every time I think I have you figured out, Jon, you go and do something completely to the contrary."

To that, he had nothing to say.

Eventually, when the heat in his face had cooled, Jon followed her advice and took the stairs that indeed lingered behind the tree, winding his way up to a small entry that led the roof.

The open night air greeted him, chasing away the warmth, but leaving him with a new sense of calm. Here, so high up above everything, the world fell quiet. In the distance, he could see the North stretching out before him for an eternity, rolling hills meeting forests and lakes. Behind him, even higher mountain peaks rose up, striking at the sky with defiance.

"Why would you need a heart tree, when you can touch the gods from where you sit?" Serra mused quietly. She'd taken a seat beside a small brazier, watching the moon as it shone above them.

Jon sighed. "I'm not a Stark."

"Hm?"

"What you said earlier, about Starks finding weirwoods," Jon continued, sitting across from her. "It might have been right, except I'm not a Stark."

"You've got Stark blood in you," Serra replied, playing with a bit of her hair. "So far as I'm concerned, that makes you a Stark."

His chest hurt.

"Don't."

She looked confused. "Don't what?"

"Just don't, Serra," he said, shaking his head. "You said it yourself, if it bothers people, you like it. Well, calling me a Stark a is a surefire way of bothering someone."

"That isn't…I mean…I didn't…" Serra sighed, her shoulders dropping. She looked so unsure of herself all of a sudden, and Jon felt the urge to take back what he said. "It's not like that, Jon. I don't mean it to sound that way.

"It's just…the very frustrated boy who met a very drunk me two years ago had more patience and empathy than anyone else I've spoken to. Is it so wrong to want to make him feel better in return?"

It didn't make him feel better, though. He wanted to tell her as much. She could say he was a Stark all she liked, but unless Serra had suddenly turned into the king, her words meant nothing. It changed nothing, not how others looked at him, not how Lady Catelyn regarded him, nothing. All it became was another reminder of everything he did not have.

But he did not say that.

He didn't want to know what her face would look like if he did.

They sat in silence for an age, surrounded by the crackle of fire and soft howling of the wind. He watched her when she wasn't watching him.

"You told me that you don't want to be your mother," he said slowly, speaking from a place of courage he didn't think he had. "Why?"

That courage died quickly when he saw the look on her face. It wasn't offense at such a personal question, but there was a pain in her blue eyes, something deep and close to the heart, and it shamed him to have caused that.

Jon scrambled to his feet, cursing himself and walking away, returning to his old ways. "Forgive me, my lady, I should never have-"

"Because she didn't love me."

He turned back to Serra then. She had stood up, arms wrapped carefully about herself; she still didn't wear a cloak.

It was her eyes he noticed most, already red and lined with tears.

She shrugged at her state. "Who are you going to tell anyway? You aren't exactly conversational. Besides, I believe I owe it to you."

He shook his head. "You don't owe me any-"

"This is the part where you keep quiet and listen, Jon Snow," Serra replied with a mirthless smile. She turned to the small wall, and the view of the North. "My mother was the fourth daughter of Lord Serry from the Shield Islands, all the way down in the Reach. Word had reached him, in some way or another, of the exceptional skill our masons possess, and he challenged my father to have a great statue made in honor of his wife. The lord was so impressed with the work, that he offered his daughter in marriage.

"Of course, that's one version of the tale," she continued, and he could hear the bitterness in her voice. "The other is that she'd taken with one too many men and her father sought to send her away to the most barren place possible as punishment. Maester Harren refuses to tell me which is actually right.

"What _is_ true is that my father adored her, and was eager to accept her hand. But she hated him. And she hated this place, every person, every animal, every little thing brought her some sort of pain.

"They say she never held me, and that the wet nurse had to care for me whenever I cried. She never held my brother either. I was seven when I finally asked why she didn't love us, and do you know what she said?"

Serra turned to him then, and Jon found that he could not hold her gaze. "She told me that we were her duty and nothing more, and that her only regret was that I hadn't been born a son so that she might have been finished with it sooner.

"She was gone within the year. I don't know where. Father never talks about it."

Jon had felt guilty all his life. It was what came with being a bastard. He'd been put down so many times, he mostly assumed things were his fault, that things would go poorly, purely because his last name was Snow. But this was one of the few times he felt genuine regret. He should have never asked. Who was he to ask such personal things?

Who was he to be alone with a highborn lady?

Again.

Serra hardly noticed his self-scrutiny. "I didn't want to marry your brother because I did not want to be her. I don't want to be the woman who does not love her children."

Jon looked up at that, and shook his head. "You wouldn't be that, Serra. I know it."

"Do you?"

He met her gaze and, for once, did not waver. His dark eyes held her light ones, and it seemed in that moment he knew everything about her.

"I do."

Her lips formed the briefest smile before she looked away. "Well, I suppose it no longer matters. My father declared my actions to be an embarrassment to our household, and that I was very much unsuited for the future Lord of Winterfell."

She snorted, picking at her fingers. "I actually laughed at that."

Perhaps she had, but Jon could see it in the way her shoulder sat: those words had hurt her. She was different now, he could tell. The humor and bright spirits were the same, but Serra had taken on a burden of responsibility that she hadn't had in Winterfell. He'd assumed it was merely because she had grown older, but perhaps that one night had led to many revelations.

"I'm glad," he said suddenly. Serra's head snapped up and Jon felt his face catch fire.

He had not meant to say that.

Oh he had really not meant to say that.

"That is, I mean…" he choked, scratching the back of his neck, looking at anything but her. "I wouldn't want you to do anything you don't like. It means you're, uh…you're…"

She smiled. "Free?"

"Yes! Yes, that's the, uh, word…that's the word…" Jon stuttered, still refusing to fully look at her. "I'm going to head back inside. Goodnight, Lady Serra."

It was a cowardly retreat, yes, but Jon could not handle the thought of embarrassing himself any further. Two days in two years he had known this woman, and what a mess she was making of him.

But again, her voice called out.

"Why are you joining the Night's Watch, Jon?"

He paused on the first step, daring to turn his gaze back to her. From that angle, Serra was bathed in the moonlight, her eyes wide and bright, her mouth softly parted. But it was the look on her face that caused him to hesitate.

It was concern.

The Lady Serra Lanford was worried for the bastard Jon Snow.

And in that brief moment, he wanted nothing more than to kiss her. He'd never kissed a woman before, and he never would again, but for one small moment in time, he could pretend that none of it mattered.

But it did matter, and that was why he was leaving.

Jon said none of these things, and returned inside, leaving her question to hang in the air.

* * *

Dawn arrived all too soon. Light had barely begun to peak over the horizon when Benjen knocked on his door. The Wall was still days away, and they had to journey has far as they could before nightfall.

But Jon was already prepared. He hadn't fallen asleep at all; he'd simply stared at his canopy, mind occupied by blonde curls.

Tyrion was the only one complaining about the hour as he climbed onto the saddle of his horse. He then began to talk about the lovely evening he'd spent with the chieftain of the Wulls, a man called Big Bucket. He still couldn't say it without breaking down in laughter.

Jon smiled at that, but only out of curtesy as his eyes wandered the compound. He noticed a large group of soldiers gathered near the mountain entrance, covered in furs and leather rather than armor. In the midst of the group, he spotted a blonde head.

Serra wore a thick leather jacket and breeches, with boots that went up to her knees, all covered with a fur lined cloak. She'd tied her hair back, and in her hand was a large, dark bow.

Benjen noticed his scrutiny.

"It's the annual hunt," he said behind him. "All members of House Lanford travel into the mountains for a few weeks. It gives them a chance to meet with the other clans and get a bearing on things for the season.

"Serra shot six stags last year. Her brother was not pleased."

Jon grinned. That sounded about right.

He watched her climb onto her horse, a dark, stocky thing, better suited to the mountains than the palfreys most rode. Her brother rode around her on his horse, saying something indiscernible. Serra stuck her tongue out at him.

Lord Martyn rode through the group then, shouting. The group cheered, shoving their spears and bows in the air – and soon the whole keep joined in – before they began to ride off into the tunnel and toward the mountains.

But Serra did not leave just yet. She turned her horse about and rode toward their group. Tyrion uttered a greeting to her that Jon neither heard nor Serra acknowledged. She only kept her eyes on him. They were dark, not angry or sad, just…something else.

"Watch the horizon, Jon Snow," she murmured.

He didn't get the chance to respond before she urged her horse forward and rode into the tunnel, disappearing completely.

Watch the horizon. Her house words.

Take precaution.

Be careful.

Good luck.

It meant all those things, and yet there was something more to it, he was sure.

"Come along, Jon," his uncle said quietly. He knew. "We need to be off."

And so, their group departed Stonefall Keep. Tyrion continued to make conversation, but Jon did not engage him as before, his thoughts elsewhere.

His uncle never asked him about changing his mind again.

* * *

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So, the next time Jon and Serra meet, we will be well into season 6 of the show. I'm thinking it won't take me almost a year to update this time haha.

Thanks for reading!


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